XVIII. ON SEEING A NEEDLE-CASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP. THE WORK OF E. M. S. FROWNS are on every Muse's face, A very Harp in all but size! Needles for strings in apt gradation! Minerva's self would stigmatize The unclassic profanation. Even her own needle, that subdued Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, A living lord of melody! How will her Sire be reconciled To the refined indignity? I spake, when whispered a low voice: "Bard! moderate your ire; Spirits of all degrees rejoice In presence of the lyre. "The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, "Some, still more delicate of ear, "Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, "Whence strains to lovesick maiden dear, "Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite, Nor think the Harp her lot deplores; Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright, Love stoops as fondly as he soars." XIX. TO A LADY, IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA. FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers I who ne'er sat within their bowers, Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn By shepherd groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn, These eyes have never seen. Yet though to me the pencil's art Still as we look with nicer care, Some new resemblance we may trace: And so may we, with charmed mind A new Forget-me-not. From earth to heaven with motion fleet, And there a Shepherd's Weather-glass; And haply some familiar name Shall grace the fairest, sweetest plant, Whose presence cheers the drooping frame Gazing, she feels its power beguile Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek, that tender smile Is but a harbinger of death: And pointing with a feeble hand, She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land This precious Flower, true love's last token. XX. GLAD sight wherever new with old Is joined, through some dear home-born tie! The life of all that we behold Depends upon that mystery. Vain is the glory of the sky, The beauty vain of field and grove, We gaze, we also learn to love. XXI. THE CONTRAST. THE PARROT AND THE WREN. I. WITHIN her gilded cage confined, A Parrot of that famous kind Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; |